Master Alvarez called for new drills. Balance, restraint, controlled falls. The black belts complied, though Ryan moved with jerks of frustration.
He wanted attention back. He wanted to erase the slip of his earlier mistake. But every time he glanced toward the wall, Thomas was there, calm, waiting.
Inside Thomas, memories pressed harder now. He saw a helicopter shadow stretching across the mountains. Men crouched in silence, faces smeared with grit, eyes hard.
The mission had been simple. Infiltrate, retrieve, protect. Only nothing about it had been simple once it began.
He remembered voices cut short. He remembered carrying one of his own, limp in his arms, across a ravine while tracer fire lit the night. He remembered the sharp sting of pain in his forearm where the scar was carved.
He remembered returning home with fewer brothers than he left with. The dog tag in his pocket had belonged to one of them. He pressed his hand against it now, steady, grounding himself, not in grief, but in respect.
Across the mat, Ryan finally snapped. Why are you even here? His voice cracked sharper than he intended.
The laughter that followed was nervous, not joyful. You think you know better than us? Just standing there staring.
The room stilled. No one had expected him to say it aloud. Parents shifted uncomfortably.
Some students lowered their eyes. Thomas turned his head slowly until his gaze settled on Ryan. His eyes were pale gray, steady as iron.
He said nothing, but silence again carried more weight than words. Ryan faltered, his stance unsettled for the first time, and the unease in the gym grew deeper. The silence after Ryan's outburst stretched too long.
The parents in their chairs fidgeted, avoiding each other's eyes. A few students stopped mid drill, unsure whether to continue. Even Master Alvarez hesitated before giving the signal to resume.
But Thomas did not speak. He did not need to. His gaze lingered on Ryan a second longer, then shifted away, slow and deliberate, like a man refusing a fight he could easily win.
That small choice carried more sting than any insult. Ryan's smirk twitched, breaking under its own weight. Harold, the retired officer, leaned toward the mother beside him.
His voice was low, but not low enough. That look, I've seen it in debriefs. Men back from the Gulf.
They had that same stillness. Not angry, not scared, just measured. His words carried farther than he intended.
A few students nearby heard.
One girl whispered to another, “What does he mean?” The room was not laughing anymore.
Ryan tried to rally. He barked at his partner, slammed him into the mat, and puffed up his chest, but his movements lacked precision. Each slam looked like effort covering unease.
And then, when he glanced back, Thomas was still watching, not gloating, not mocking, watching. Ryan felt the heat crawl up his neck. At the bench, Daniel tilted his head.
“Mom, he doesn't even move, but Ryan keeps losing control.” His mother hushed him again, though her own eyes stayed fixed on the old man.
Thomas adjusted his sleeve once more. The scar caught the light briefly. Long, pale, and deliberate.